


Voice

by nwhepcat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything's different now, except Dean's pride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roque_Clasique](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Roque_Clasique).



> Based on a prompt from her h/c birthday ficathon.

"This beer is fuckin' swill," Dean announces, and from the quick glance Sam directs toward the bar, he must have said it louder than he thought. It's fucking tiring, thinking about this all the time.

His chin comes up. "No one heard. The music's too loud for that." He can feel it through his thighs on the wooden seat of the booth, through his hands on the scarred tabletop.

Slamming his half-full beer glass on the table, he says, "Look, I'm gonna head for the car."

Sam starts to rise, but Dean waves him down.

"No hurry. Finish that." He slides out of the booth, hanging onto the bench back for a moment to steady himself. "I mean it, Sam. _Sit._"

Sam plainly doesn't like it, but he knows Dean's temper's been on a hair trigger lately and he nods and settles back on his own bench.

Dean carefully weaves his way past a barmaid and a couple grinding together on the dance floor, oblivious to anyone around them. When he makes it to the sidewalk, he sucks in a breath of cool air, but once he gets out of the shelter of the building, the chill breeze makes his head ache and the world tilt slightly.

He lurches toward the Impala, picking up speed as his vertigo increases. Fuck this shit. There is nothing he wants more than to find Lucifer's sword and gank that bastard Zachariah. Fighting back his rising nausea, he settles behind the wheel of the Impala, closing his eyes as he tips back his head. _Jesus. Breathe._

Suddenly there's the staccato of someone knocking hard on the glass, sending the vibrations rocketing through his already frayed nerves. On alert, he yanks his gun from his back waistband and aims it at the window where the intruder peers in.

It's a girl, stepping back in alarm.

No. It's Cassie. _Dean!_

Fighting back the rise of bile, Dean hastily tucks the gun away. "Cassie?" He shoves the driver door open and she sidesteps to let him out. "Cassie, what the hell?" He grips the top of the door frame.

_I'm sorry! I called out to you, but you didn't --_ She throws her arms around him, still talking, but he loses what she's saying. All he gets is the vibration of her voice making a strange itch-tickle in his chest. She pulls back, looking at him as if she's expecting some kind of response. Instead he goes on the offensive: "What the hell are you doing here?"

_Job interview. What about --_

"Look, I'm on a job. Till it's done, this town isn't the safest place to be, and I'm pretty much ground zero for any shit that goes down."

She looks up and down the street, talking as she does, so he loses most of what she says. _ \-- anything to do with all the crazy --_

"_Cassie._ There isn't time to chitchat. If your interview's done, get the hell out of town. If not, lay as low as possible till you can get out."

She blinks in the face of this onslaught, making him realize he's probably yelling.

"I don't mean to snap," he tells her. "Things are bad here, that's all."

Cassie looks away abruptly, off in the direction of the bar where he and Sam had dinner. Following her gaze, Dean sees Sam bounding up to them, face lit by a delighted smile.

_Cassie? Hey, it's great to see you._ He enfolds her in a hug, a big sloppy golden retriever pissing all over Dean's apocalyptic urgency. _You free? Come on and have a drink with us._

Releasing her, he beams at Dean, then falters as he sees his brother's scowl.

Cassie flicks a look between them. _\-- thought you had a --_

_Job_, Dean guesses she's saying. "We do," he blurts, just as Sam says, _We're done_ and this time he doesn't care if he's too loud.

_ \-- the hell is going --_ Her glossy corkscrews of hair whip around her as she looks between Sam and Dean, anger beginning to darken her expression.

"I don't want to have a friendly little drink, okay? Jesus, take a hint. I did. Four years without a fucking --"

Sam grabs him by the shoulder, taps it twice, which means "Volume down."

He doesn't give a shit about his volume. "I don't have time for this, all right? Have a nice life, Cassie, but don't expect--"

Sam jerks him hard up against him, the vibrations of his voice telling Dean he's speaking. Usually he's careful about making sure Dean has a clear view when he talks, but he's conducting a helluva speech out of Dean's sight.

Dean pulls free of his grip. "So help me, Sam --"

Sam yanks him hard by the back of his collar, which must be the new code for "Shut the fuck up."

Dean elbows him hard in the ribs, again breaking his hold, but as he pulls away, he catches sight of the cop who's pulled his PR-24 side-handle baton from its holder.

Sam plants a hand on Dean's chest, stepping between him and the cop while still positioning himself where Dean can read his lips. _Officer, please let me explain._

Personally, he'd rather have his head stoved in than have Sam explain in front of Cassie.

The cop holds his hand up to shush Sam. _Are these men harassing you, Miss?_

_They're friends,_ Cassie says. She jerks her chin toward Dean. _He's mad about something, but he won't hurt me, I know that._

The cop glares at Dean. _You want to tell me why you're screaming like a maniac?_

_He doesn't mean to scream,_ Sam says, and he's winding up to say the one thing Dean doesn't want him to say.

"Goddammit, Sammy -- "

_He's completely deaf. He can't hear himself, so he can't tell how loud he is._

Cassie's eyes go wide, and Dean sees those pretty lips repeat _Deaf?_, and pity twists her features. Dean wants to grab the cop's nightstick and beat Sam with it until his face looks like supermarket meat. Instead he sits heavily on the fender of the Impala, looking away from the cop, Cassie and his fucking traitor of a brother.

The cop slides his stick back in its holder, a movement Dean catches from the corner of his eye. As the cop steps back, Dean says, "Let's go" and gets in behind the wheel of the Impala. He stares at his knuckles, watching them grow paler as he clenches the wheel. When the passenger door rocks the car, Dean says "Fuck you, Sam" in a voice he hopes is low and menacing. Digging his keys from his pocket, he fumbles them onto the floor at his feet when he sees it's Cassie and not Sam in the car with him.

_When did it happen?_ she asks.

She knows now. He might as well tell her. "Six weeks."

_How?_

"How else? On the job." Dick angel with a temper flare-up put on his angel drag and told him one more time to say yes to Michael. If Dean hadn't been turned away painting a sigil on the wall with his own blood, his eyes would be as permanently fucked as his ears.

_A ghost?_

"Angel. In case you were wondering, most of them are pricks."

Cassie blinks. _You read lips pretty well._

"I've been lip-reading for years. It's a good hunter's skill."

_Dean._

He wants to look away, leave her words to hit the air and dissolve like vapor on a January day. But this is Cassie, and he hasn't seen her face for four years.

_I'm so sorry._

Rage washes through him. "Try being sorry for something you had some control over. Try being sorry for four fucking years."

_I never led you on._ She reaches a hand to stroke the side of his face, a familiar gesture in their fight/make up/have smoking sex cycle. But the glint of a ring gives him solid proof of what he already knew -- this is one cycle that's busted all to hell and gone.

"We're done here." Shouldering the door open, he marches to the nearest building and slams his fist into its brick facade.

Grabbing him from behind, Sam hauls him back before he can make contact with the wall again. "Don't you ever do that again, Sammy. Not ever."

Both of them know it would be impossible to do this again, that there's no other woman who holds the place in his life that Cassie did.

Sam's voice vibrates through Dean's body like the rumble of the Impala's engine, the bass of its tape deck. Talking to Cassie, or the cop, because he's not making sure Dean can see his face. After a moment, Sam releases his hold on Dean.

When he looks up and down the street, Cassie's nowhere in sight. The cop has turned his attention elsewhere.

Dean's hand throbs, and his throat feels raw. "Why don't you drive."

Sammy accepts the keys and settles in behind the wheel, while Dean leans back and closes his eyes, cutting off everything but the deep, throaty voice of the Impala.


End file.
